The New
London night was cool, and bright with the lights of both the city and the sky.
Upon its streets both young and old (and the middle-aged, who are not generally
noted) walked, some fast, some slow, some too lazy to walk and taking cars
instead. But enough of them – let us focus on the one whom this story is about.

The young
lady was of average height, and rather slender in build – though this in no way
meant that she was delicate or petite. On the contrary, she radiated an aura of
'please-mess-with-me, so-I-can-have-a-reason-to-kick-ass' to most people;
furthermore, she was dressed in the street uniform of New Scotland Yard, and most
people didn't like to pick a fight with a Yardie. She had brown hair, with an
odd but eye-catching streak of lighter, almost blond hair in the front, and
bluish-green eyes, and (you'd be surprised at how many people could pick this
up right away) considerable experience at giving deep hurting.

She was, of
course, Inspector Elizabeth Lestrade, and she was on her way home from work.
She was in a good mood – Grayson hadn't yelled at her for property damage or
irresponsibility or taking the last of the coffee, and she had finished with
all her paperwork, and her month of paid vacation was coming up. Ah, yes, life
was sweet.

She passed
by a police cordon. Naturally curious, of course, she came nearer, and then
lost interest as quickly. A car accident – a collapsed wall – policemen (not
Yardies, but the more mundane and rather less glamorized New London Traffic
Patrol) Holmes would instruct her to take in the situation, deduce quickly what
she could from the minutiae there, and probably would himself for the sheer
hell of it, but damn – it was a car accident. There was no mystery
involved here, no enigmatic lack of conclusions and facts. Judging from the
noticeable lack of media hounds, and no blood seeping anywhere, it involved no
casualties. And anyway, Holmes wasn't here.

So she
continued on her way, until almost tripping over something. A very furry
something.

"Hello,"
she murmured, bending down. "What's this, then?" A puppy? With no ownership
tags? The puppy looked miserable, tail in between legs. She picked it up, and
was startled to see that instead of the usual dark brown, this dog's eyes were
a deep blue. Rather like…well, Holmes'.

The puppy
looked straight in her face, and if Beth wasn't so sure that it was impossible,
she would have thought an expression of shock flickered across the puppy's
strange blue eyes.

Impetuous
Lestrade, who brought dead men back to life without her superior's permission,
there and then decided that this dog would be her new pet. She liked the look
of it…

***

Holmes
could scarcely believe it. Well, he was a dog, and after various tests, had to
accept it for the time being. He had four legs, a snout, and a tail. Some
differences to normal dogs – he had the clearer, color-enabled eyesight of a
human being, and somehow (thank God) retained all his higher brain functions.

And then he had been adopted
by, of all the strange coincidences in the world, Lestrade.

'Bloody
hell, I'd kill for a smoke.'

They
stopped by a pet store, where he was bought feed bowls, a bag of puppy chow,
some chew toys and (the indignity, the indignity!) a collar and leash, both of
which were attached to him while still in the store. He couldn't stop his
displeasure at having a leash fastened to him from showing, with a low,
quiet growl issuing from himself that surprised him.

"Quiet,
Seeker," she ordered the dog as she clipped the leash onto the collar already
around the dog's neck. Holmes quieted, less out of obeying than in sheer shock.
Seeker? What, she'd already named him? Well, her job (and her life) was
being a detective, seeking out the truth…but naming a dog Seeker…?

And then
she'd had the pet-shop attendant sweep him in a 'bath' of sonic waves that were
the exact frequency to kill fleas and ticks and other parasitic pests. Holmes
stood still for it, mildly insulted. He'd been swept for fleas. He'd never be
able to look at himself in the mirror the same way again.

They went
out of the shop, the bag of pet things Lestrade had purchased on her arm, and
Holmes trailing a bit sulkily behind. He was collared, literally, and he
was named Seeker. This made everything he said about marriage mild. Although
thank God Lestrade wasn't the sort to name a dog Fido or Froo-froo or Rover. He
couldn't have borne it if she had.

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